


Atonia

by camakitsune



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Gore, Hard vore, Horror, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Sleep Paralysis, Unspecified gender reader, Vore, chapter 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camakitsune/pseuds/camakitsune
Summary: Your first night sleeping alone with Beelzebub brings certain fears up to the surface.
Relationships: Beelzebub & Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Beelzebub (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	Atonia

**Author's Note:**

> Hi first I want to just tell y'all _**FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HEED THE WARNINGS**_
> 
> Second thank you for reading if you're still planning to do that. This takes place during chapter 5 of the main story (specifically between 5-17 and 5-20). I'm still working through the game so apologies for any contradictions.
> 
> Finally, this didn't feel explicitly shippy enough to use the / relationship tag despite the attraction written here. Unless you think a big demon eating your guts in the middle of the night is cute in which case hmu on twitter
> 
> Comments are appreciated and I hope you enjoy!

A sweep of the hallway, several thorough checks of Beelzebub’s room, a call to a D.D.D. left sitting in the room. All futile attempts in turning up a missing angel.

“We’ll just have to see if he comes back later,” Beelzebub finally tells you. Defeat audibly weighs him down now. It’s hard to blame him. Luke’s disappearance and the mind-numbingly late hour aside, it’s hard not to feel wrung out from Lucifer’s room inspection alone. Intense is too gentle a word to describe him when he thinks discipline is imminent.

You offer Beel a nod and wish you knew something to say to help his mood right now.

“This is making me hungry,” he says after a quiet moment. “I’ll be right back.”

You would join him as he heads out of the room, but you already saw after dinner tonight that there aren’t many options in the fridge. Aside from the uncooked offal you’d normally avoid (even if you did have a functioning stove to cook it on), take-out became the house’s main food source until the new oven arrives. He seemed to forgive you for the custard thing, but asking for anything he designated for himself still feels like bad taste at this point.

Beel shuts the door when he leaves, initiating what might be the first quiet moment you’ve had in this room since being assigned to sleep here. You go ahead and change into something you can sleep in before he returns.

Your belongings are unintrusively pushed into the corner of the walls beside you. Courtesy would dictate such, even if you’re far from over-occupying the room. It’s such a huge room even for two people, and it gapes like the mouth of a feeding monster around you and your cowering clothes stack.

You even catch yourself shrinking from the openness, sliding into Beel’s bed as soon as you have some pajamas on. Even the bed is large enough that it threatens to swallow you. You can’t imagine sleeping in it on a regular basis.

By the time Beel pokes a hole into the empty space carrying a take-out box and chewing, you’ve managed to distract yourself with your D.D.D. You greet “Welcome back” – and you mean it.

He hums acknowledgment through his mouthful and homes in on the couch. The room doesn’t devour him the way it does you. He holds his own against the open space, aloof as a lion exposed in its savanna. The image of a big cat settling with its kill might begin to describe the way he descends on the couch.

In only a t-shirt and sweatpants the sturdiness of his body is left too plain to your eyes, rendering him even more imposing than in his usual baggy layers. You should be more reasonable than this. You already saw him covered by less before, courtesy of Mammon. So there’s no reason to be so glued to him in the flesh, even if it does mean you have the chance to imagine getting a feel of his rumored concrete-hard muscle.

It takes a buzz in your hand to finally pull your attention off Beel. If Luke was here he’d have swiftly stopped your staring with a glare and a disapproving tut.

It’s so much quieter without him. You’re not terribly engrossed in the group chat and Beel is eating his frustration without need for any further distraction. At least for now, he doesn’t need to worry about saving food for Luke to immediately turn his nose up at. Judging by the wet sounds and dense meat smell, once again he has some organ or another. Did he really enjoy that?

“What are you eating?” you ask, if for no other reason than to fill the silence with something other than Beel’s eating noises.

He finishes a mouthful before answering. “I picked up some crocodile heart strips before Hell’s Kitchen closed.” It takes a bit of a tug to separate his next bite from the rest, as if it’s cooked very rare.

“Is it okay to eat them like that?”

He seems confused. “I bought a lot so I don’t run out.”

“I mean, you won’t get sick? If it’s not cooked all the way through?”

“Oh right.” His pace barely ever slows to answer between bites, or doesn’t slow at all and some answers are given through half-chewed heart. “I forget you humans can’t always eat your food fresh. I’ve never gotten sick from eating anything.”

He swallows the last piece of a strip. When his neck flexes, you wonder what has gotten into you to make you find the current situation so exciting.

“Is it good?” you press on. Any bit of conversation is better than empty silence.

“It’s my favorite way to have heart.” He smiles for the first time in hours, that warm, good-natured smile of his that almost makes you want to pet him whenever you see it. “What’s surprisingly good is when it’s just warm and still beating. Even humans can eat meat when it’s that fresh.”

Whatever had gotten into you worms its way back out. You’d rather not think about how many hearts he’s eaten that way, or from what.

Luke’s still unexplained absence remains heavy on your mind when the lights go out. Emptiness nests in the huge chair where he slept the past few nights. It reminds you that for the first time since you were assigned to sleep in Beel’s room, you’re spending the night alone with him. Luke is still on your mind, but instead of his form slumped asleep in the chair, his warnings to never trust a demon are what skitter across your mind. And here you are about to spend the night with only Beelzebub and the palpable absence surrounding you.

The next bedroom is far.

Did Mammon have a good reason to complain about you being sent here?

Would anyone make it in time if you needed them to?

That’s enough thinking like that. Beel eats a lot, sure, but he’s not a threat to you, and there’s no excuse to suddenly start acting like he is. You need to gain his trust, and that means trusting him too.

Even if you are a “special kind of treat” to him, to use Mammon’s words.

It doesn’t matter. You’re going to sleep.

Sleep is the kind of thing that only announces itself when it leaves and you find yourself awake and sprawled on your back with your eyelids still heavy. Your body is still heavy too, and there’s no light in the room to help you fight it. It would help to check the time, but nothing happens when you try.

You can’t move.

The shadows near the bed aren’t right. Someone is walking around your bed.

You try to get a better look – try turning your head toward the pacing shape, think of saying something – but all you can manage is moving your eyes. You can’t control your breath, let alone speak. You’re not sure if you’re trapped in your body or locked out of it.

The interloper towers high when they stop beside you. No doubt a figure that large must be Beel. But what’s he doing? Your heart beats, distant, steady, undisturbed and unaware. You can’t get up. Beel is sliding into the bed and you can’t get up. Can’t say anything to him. Can’t scream.

You’ve heard of people being visited by demons in the grip of sleep paralysis. Are you about to learn that they truly are demonic occurrences?

Miles away, Beel straddles a leg. His knee is too _close_. Your stomach is exposed. Your body is iron and far from you but you know his hand is on your belly.

“Forgive me, but,” he rasps.

His knee only leaves so he can dip down and take a deep breath of your skin. “I’m so hungry.”

Your body is iron and far from you and through that remote adamant wall, his hand settles on your chest. Compared to your leaden body right now, it’s light as a butterfly landing. His teeth at your belly press deeper into that foreign weight, until finally, they jerk back once, twice, once more. With the sound of tearing skin comes enough pain to pierce the armor of paralysis and you almost hear the scream trapped outside your steady lungs.

Your eyes burn. Beel sits up in time for you to find his shape before he’s blurred by hot tears. He’s eating a strip of your skin and you can’t see a thing, but _you see_ his powerful throat eagerly accept a piece of you with each audible swallow.

This has to be a dream – you pray against the too-clear rhythm of chewing that this is only a terrible dream. Pray to who – to God, to Beelzebub himself? You don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Prayer scatters into a swarm of thoughts of _how could you please stop this go away give it back just kill me-_

Your stomach is hot. Burning fluid is dripping down your face, down your sides. This paralysis is crueler than being woken with full control; it would be kinder if you faced the full force of this brutality and the shock of pain thrust you back out of consciousness. Instead, sensation is only deadened enough that your insides still know to scream when Beel reaches into the gorge in your stomach and pinches something fleshy from beneath your sternum.

And while you retreat into telling yourself it’s not real, that distinct, wet, rhythmic sound burrows through your brain.

He sucks his fingers once he’s finished the last morsel of whatever he plucked from you. He can’t leave you like this, it’s too cruel, he has to follow through and kill you. Merciful resignation smothers that split second of doubt. You’ve seen how he eats. You know he’s not done.

His hand leaves its resting spot on your chest to plunge up into you. He penetrates you smoothly, expertly: he avoids your organs and grips your sternum like he knows what he’s doing. You don’t know if your unspoken prayers for him to finish this can reach him, but a dreadful ecstasy festers in you when the heel of his other hand presses low on your ribcage from the outside. Though you’ve begged in your mind for this, the knowledge that he’s about to break open your ribs to rip out your heart and eat its last futile beats finally gives you the control to scream aloud.

Only it sounds more like a pitiful moan. You blink your eyes against the darkness. Little damp pockets, not the hot streams from a moment ago, sit at the corners of your eyes.

Across the room, Beel asks if you said something. You silently confirm that your stomach is all in one fully attached piece before you even realize you reached for it.

You still don’t answer him. Whether or not he can tell you’re pretending to sleep, he doesn’t deem it worth pushing for a response. Another moment, and the steady chewing of a second midnight snack fills the spacious room.

You can’t sleep again with that sound reminding you what you just experienced, even if it wasn’t real. So you lay there silent, hand still shielding your stomach from your imagination, head filled with the sounds of Beel and his crocodile hearts: tearing, chewing, swallowing. You can’t sleep until long after a sigh punctuates the noises and you’re certain you hear his gentle snoring.

Taps at your shoulder jolt you awake. The room is lit now, and you jump again when you find Beel standing beside you. He doesn’t react to your surprise, instead sticks his arm through the teal shirt he has halfway on.

“You’ll miss breakfast if you stay in bed too long,” he warns. Shower-wet hair is still sticking to his head.

You sit up and manage a “Thanks.”

He backs up to give you some space while he fastens the minimum number of buttons to consider his shirt closed. His stomach growls.

“Did you hear anything from Luke?” you ask him.

“No. He left his D.D.D. in here.”

You watch a drip of water trace his jaw down to his neck before you answer, “Right, forgot.”

Beel is moving slower than usual. His eyes turn toward you in the middle of putting on his jacket, and you remember the two of you had been walking together to get breakfast for the past few days. Despite his warning about you missing out, it looks like he still intends to wait for you.

“You can go on and get breakfast,” you tell him. “It’s not fair for me to hold you up,” is an excellent excuse to avoid him, at least while you’re still working through the warring feelings of _please go away_ and _let me touch you._

“I appreciate it,” he says with a modest smile. “I’m not sure how much longer I could have waited. Too long and I might have snacked on the first thing that looked good on the way down.” He casts a final wry glance with the taunt before heading for the door. “See you later.”

He’s already gone through the door and shut it behind him by the time you can squeak out “Later.”

**Author's Note:**

> pspspsps sleep paralysis beel please come over


End file.
